


Beyond The Surface

by MuscleMemory



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 2x15, Angst, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 22:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11519058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuscleMemory/pseuds/MuscleMemory
Summary: Ep 2x15, Magnus' POV.He wants to bury himself in the crook of Alexander’s neck, listen to his breathing and soft snores, and embrace him so tightly he won’t have to breathe himself anymore, won’t have to think.





	Beyond The Surface

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a persistent friend. Beta'd by my loveliest, most loyal Parabeta AlyxHavok <3 <3 <3

He doesn’t try to sleep anymore. He hasn’t really slept in over a week. There’s no salvation in the nights, no healing power.

He’s staring at his lover next to him, his face basked in moonlight. He takes in every detail as he has done the past few nights, to his shame he’s forgotten how many he’s been staying here. It doesn’t really matter.

His eyes focus on the eyebrow scar, the nose dimple, those lips he always knows what they taste and feel like without having to think about it. Alexander’s hair is mussed, and his fingers remember the soft ticklish sensations as they run through it, they remember the heat evaporating from his skin.

He remembers the sounds he made in the throws of passion just a few hours ago.

It helps to forget – for a while.

He can pretend – for a while.

He can outwit the pain – for a while.

His eyes burn and he closes them for just a moment.

_Mama! Mama!_

His eyes snap open and he sits in bed, his heart racing, pumping madly in his chest. He swings his legs out of bed, he can’t stay, he can’t wake him – he freezes as he notices the sleeping figure turning around, afraid it’s already too late.

But Alec sleeps on.

Magnus is drawn to the sight of his runed back. He knows what it’s like to press his own body against Alexander’s, his nose between his shoulder blades or pushed into his neck. He knows the smell of his skin after a shower, after a fight, after making love.

He wants to bury himself in the crook of Alexander’s neck, listen to his breathing and soft snores, and embrace him so tightly he won’t have to breathe himself anymore, won’t have to think.

He shoves the longing away almost violently and leaves the bedroom quickly, for a split second reaching to close the door, hesitating, walking out, his robe appearing in his hand and he pulls it on while his steps become faster, the ties swinging in the air behind him.

All the rooms are dark and he doesn’t bother turning on any light, light doesn’t save him from the darkness plaguing his mind.

He goes to his study, tries to focus, on a book, a translation, a client’s fire message. He tries to get work done, as he’s been trying to for days, without much success. He doesn’t care, but he knows he should. He wants to make himself care for anything other than his tortured mind. Alexander’s presence eases the violent throbbing, the screams and noises. But never at night, at night he’s vulnerable to the voices, gaining power in the stillness.

He’s tempted to turn on music, so loud it would drown everything else. But he’d wake Alexander, and he’s tried it before, he’s tried so many things to cope, to distract himself. None of them are permanent, none of them bring release.

He’s in the kitchen, making tea, focusing on every movement, building an invisible wall in hope of the memories that are worse than the most gruesome nightmare to get trapped behind it.

He inhales the steamy scent of herbs, his eyes falling shut.

_You’re a monster, an abomination!_

The cup slips from his hand, his eyes jumping wide, helplessly staring at it. He sees how it hits the ground, shatters into dozens of pieces, tea splashing the floor and his bare feet. He knows it will happen. He can’t do anything about it.

His hand moves instinctively and he blinks, surprised that there are no shards on the floor, no liquid anywhere, and the cup is safely held in his hands.

He’s sat down by his vanity table to drink it, trying to pick out what rings and necklaces to wear, gotten halfway dressed. The tea has become cold, never making it to his lips while it was still hot. He’s holding the cup, his body still like a statue, his eyes brimming red, sore and unseeing.

He’s a prisoner to his own mind, and it’s the cruelest guard.

He has no defences, no Alexander, no magic. It’s a never ending spiel. He’s running, his heart pounding in his ears.  _Mama! Mama!_ A feeling of great calamity threatens to choke him. He finds her, sees her ashen face, the keris, the blood. Smells the copper, the sweat, the terror, death. He didn’t know death had its own scent. He will never forget it.

He screams and cries, wants to rip his skin off, gauge his eyes out.  _His eyes._ The reason she’s lying there, taken her own life.

_He_  tells him why. His eyes aren’t natural, they’re abnormal, he’s an abomination and no one, not even his own mother, could love him.

His world is crashing, shattering, ripping him apart - and yet he feels empowered. Anger, pain, and loss – suddenly he feels an ominous calmness inside of him. He has power, he isn’t helpless. He is strong, he is not weak. He is in control, he is not lost. He suffered enough. He watches him burn. He feels mighty, satisfied, justified.

He feels crumbling guilt, crushing despair, a frightening truth. He’s a monster, an abomination, the son of a demon. His mother died because of him,  _killed_  herself because of  _him._  Unable to bear knowing the truth, looking at him and seeing what he truly is. She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t love him, his own mother. How should anyone else do it? How should Alexander truly be able to do it once he knows? Once he sees the monster underneath the pretty, made up surface? He killed two people that night, and he can no longer stand that anguish.

And yet he’s cursed to relive it every day, every night, over and over again, and there’s no way out.

He’s pulled from the memories by a soft voice behind him. In the blink of an eye he notices the daylight, the cold tea, his face in the mirror which he cannot stand to look at, magics make-up on, puts on an automated smile and turns around.

The sight of Alexander stings in ways he can’t define. His body and mind are screaming to drop the act, to be allowed weakness for once, making him hold onto pretence even stronger. Part of him wishes nothing more than to tell him everything, to cry in his arms, to be held by him even if he can’t make it OK.

He obliterates that part of himself quickly as he straightens through the leaden tenseness of his muscles, the smile and banter almost suffocating, worse when it becomes clear how much Alexander cares for him and how worried he seems to be about him, how aware.

His carefully crafted masquerade begins to falter and he gives everything he has left to convince him otherwise, any other turnout of the situation unthinkable to his tormented mind.

“So what about you? Have you decided what you’re gonna report to The Clave?”

He feels relief as much as hatred towards himself for going this route, for finding that escape. And he listens as he moves away from him, craving the deflection Alexander can give, and yet he’s wrought back into his mind, the memories as vivid as the day they became his reality.

Alexander’s voice is drowned out, muted, as Magnus gives into the inevitable reminder of his ruthless past, a vice gripped around his body, dragging him underwater.

For a second his lungs feel ruptured, as if battling for breath. Alexander’s voice becomes clearer. This is real, Alexander’s real, here is real – for now.

Until they say their byes, and his eyes long to keep Alexander here, just for a little longer, just to have a short reprieve. But the door closes, his eyes shifting, unseeing, his world’s spinning, and he’s succumbing to dreadful memories once again.

* * *

He got dressed and prettied himself up, though he feels like the ugliness inside of him must finally crack the beautiful facade, no longer able to hold the real him captive.

He’s been drinking, unaware of the day turning back into night, unaware of the world moving on outside of his apartment.

He sits and drinks and drowns.

He’s running, calling out to her. She’s dead. Keris, blood, death.  _He_  made her do this. His stepfather’s behind him, cursing him, damning him, loathing what he is.

He uses the power flowing inside him, watches him burn. He can smell the scorched flesh and bones, he can feel the heat, feel the hateful victory, the helpless, hopeless despair.

It’s never going to be alright. He’s never going to be alright.

“Magnus.”

 

“Magnus.”

An icy prickling sensation pierces him as he’s brutally made aware of someone else here. Not just someone. Alexander.

He’s forced into action almost too fast for him to catch up. He needs to function, to pretend, to hide.

Make drinks. Ask about his day. Smile.

“I love you, and I know something’s wrong. Whatever it is, I’m here for you.”

His body freezes. Alexander’s words don’t fit. They smash his carefully laid out plan. Another lie, because he never really had a plan. How can he make one when nothing works out, nothing is as it used to be. It’s all wrong and unfamiliar, he’s all wrong, tortuous, in disarray.

And even though, it must be true, he cannot let him  _know_ and  _see_.

It takes his last strength to turn around, look at Alexander’s worry-stricken face, and tell him he’s fine. How he detests that word. Everyone uses it to disguise their pain. And apparently, he is no different.

Alexander will respect his words, however, he will accept them, give him space, whatever he wants, he’s that kind of wonderful.

Magnus feared he wouldn’t be able to forgive Alexander, that knowing it wasn’t his fault what happened with Valentine, wouldn’t be enough to make him also believe it. Knowing something and believing it couldn’t be greater opposites.

But he was surprised at how fast and completely he could forgive him, realizing that no one else would have tried to earn his forgiveness like Alexander has been doing.

Magnus is used to not getting apologies from people who’ve done him wrong, he’s used to not asking, not expecting one. Making anything up to him wouldn’t cross most people’s minds, and he would never plead.

Alexander’s been apologizing ever since that day. With words, but even more with gestures, making him tea, breakfast, leaving small messages and notes. With looks, his eyes always seeking Magnus out, trying to see below the surface with kindness, respect, attention and so much devotion Magnus hasn’t known how to react.

Every mistake he made he put right tenfold, so much so that Magnus has felt guilt weigh heavy on himself, worsening with every day the ghosts of his past have come to haunt him. He doesn’t deserve Alexander’s care after all. He doesn’t deserve his love.

“No, you’re not. I’m sorry, but I’m not gonna leave until you talk to me.”

He’s taken aback once more, again making the wrong assumption. What now? His mind is reeling to come up with the right response, the words that will ease Alexander’s mind, and save Magnus from the inevitable disruption should he ever tell him.

“Do you remember when you said, when things get crazy don’t push me away?”

A flashback to that night on his balcony invades his mind. When Alexander sought him out to apologize, and made a real effort to change his closed off ways, when they were both hurting for different reasons, yet seemingly the same when trying desperately to hide their sorrows. The way he blushed and smiled at him, and accepted Magnus’ plea, genuine trust and promise shining in his eyes.

Right now,  _he_  is the reason for Alexander’s sorrow, he’s the one closing himself off from him and causing him pain. But how much more pain will knowing the truth bring him? How much longer can he keep up the charade? If he leaves, isn’t it better to get it over with right now, instead of making it worse for both of them with each passing day?

He doesn’t have the strength left, either way.

But Alexander deserves the truth.

“When I was tortured in Valentine’s body, that agony rune, it… made me relive my worst memory.”

He feels how every muscle in his face tightens and revolts, breathing sharply, scared of letting it out into the open, scared of keeping it inside forever.

“And now… I can’t get it out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, it-”

He sighs painfully, his body trembling and he drops heavily in his armchair, his limbs leaden, his mind in chaos, wishing it would all just end right now.

Alexander’s close, too close, not close enough, kneeling before him, his voice so caring and soft. He cares so much, too much for a monster like Magnus. It’s all over now.

“Hey, what is it?”

He wants to know, of course he does. He needs to know. And Magnus can’t back down, there’s no escape. And a sliver of hope is nagging him that maybe Alexander won’t abandon him, maybe he’ll understand.

Magnus doesn’t know what words to use, how to even get them out. Everything is hurting, cold and onerous. His fingers clasp tightly, a last effort of holding himself together, spending fleeting comfort.

“Remember I told you how I found my mother dead by her own hand? My stepfather found me shortly after. He screamed at me.”

He pauses, his jaw feeling like concrete, like he can’t move.

“He called me an abomination.”

“What?”

Alec’s shock deepens Magnus’ agony, he still doesn’t know.

The man’s words keep ringing in his ears, his words, then his screams. Burned alive.

“He was right.”

He was, he is. Centuries of denying the truth, of hiding, disguising, lying. It’s always been true.

He can do it this once. He can stop pretending.

“He blamed me for her suicide, and- he said that she hated herself for giving birth to a monster.”

He can do it through the pain, the guilt, the horror. He can do it despite the tears, his lips quivering and his voice breaking. He can do it.

“So I lashed out… with all the magic I had.”

He’s back in his past, the boy who murdered his stepfather, who made his mother kill herself. He’s the boy, the monster. He always will be.

“I burned him, Alexander. Right where he stood. I murdered my stepfather.”

“You were just a boy. You weren’t in control of your powers.”

Oh, how he wishes it were true, how he wishes he could lie to him and prevent his hatred and misery.

“Yes, actually I was.”

He doesn’t want to but he needs to look at him, see the change in his eyes, the realization. It’s his rightful punishment.

“I never wanted you to see this terrible, ugly side of me, of my past.”

And still he finds himself making a pitiful attempt at… something. An excuse? There’s no excuse, and Alexander knows now, he knows and he won’t be able to make any more excuses for Magnus, either.

He finally becomes aware of his tear-stained face, hot liquid running out of his eyes and down his skin faster. His throat feels raw and sore, everything is sadness, everything is pain.

He can never look at Alexander again, turning his face, wiping a tear from his nose, wishing he could disappear, but whatever happens now, he knows he deserves it, he must endure-

He feels warm skin on his hand, Alexander’s hand…?

“Hey.”

He expected screaming, anger, more pain. But he’s never heard tenderness like this in anyone’s voice before.

Magnus doesn’t understand, he has no idea what’s happening, why he isn’t shouting, running…

His eyes move up, connecting with Alexander’s, and he doesn’t trust what he sees there. He can’t. It couldn’t be true.

He winces, Alec’s hand suddenly moving, cupping the side of his face and Magnus stares bewildered, afraid, stripped off all self-worth and power.

“There is nothing ugly about you.”

Alexander’s voice is filled with such conviction it jolts Magnus into breathless shock. His world is crumbling again, crashing down on him, but this time like sunrays pushing their way out of the remnants of a heavy storm.

And he can feel the tips of their warmth brushing him as he’s enveloped by Alexander’s arms, his own wrapping around his solid body, holding on, feeling what his mind hasn’t managed to comprehend, yet.

Alexander’s still here, still cares, still loves him. He does. He loves him. His own mother couldn’t, but Alexander does. He’s here, in Magnus’ arms, his face pushed against his shoulder, and Magnus can somehow feel the slight movement of his lips against the thin fabric of his shirt.

Alexander  _knows_ , yet he’s still here. He’s got him, and Magnus can never let go of him again.


End file.
